


Metallic Hearts and Corrosive Arrows

by rebel_raven



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Kidnapping, Attempted assassination, BAMF Avengers, BAMF Clint Barton, F/M, Loki Needs a Hug, M/M, Male Fortuneteller/Theif Loki, More Murder, Murder, Near Death Experiences, Panic Attacks, People are thick skulled and need to learn to communicate, Tony is in need of a hug, Victorian Steampunk Avengers AU, odin's A+ parenting skills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:03:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2336261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebel_raven/pseuds/rebel_raven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony houses everyone and Jarvis is human. Tony is 'Iron Man'; the gun slinger and explosives master. Steve is a good cop who is a bad ass but unable to condone the teams questionable antics. Clint and Natasha are assassins that are brought in but are neutral points because they just want to figure out WHO THE HELL in stealing their marks. Bruce is confused and Thor is amused. Loki is annoyed, bemused, amused, and just wants to leave everyone there and is completely done with all the antics people are pulling. He's also sort of falling for the snarky, multi-lingual assassin who uses a bow and arrow of all things to kill people. And Clint Barton may be falling in love with him too. But he probably will not admit it.<br/>_-_-_-_-_</p><p>  “He, however, works with bigger fish. It’s like a clock; he is the smaller wheel that makes the gears spin, but he makes sure that they do. And then the bigger fish come and wind up the smaller gears and they always, always, always spin to the same tune. Always. It’s maddening because the crank is impossible to find…” Bruce was pretty sure that as this point that Tony was rambling and had succinctly lost his mind. Or that the concussion was worse than he first imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metallic Hearts and Corrosive Arrows

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear readers!!! I have no idea how long this is going to be, firstly. Only that it is going to morph into a horrifically long and monstrous fic that i must complete.  
> Secondly, I am writing this as a gift to a good friend of but she doesn't have an Ao3.  
> Anyways. I hope that you enjoy it; I will attempt to update it and keep it up so that it doesn't fall into oblivion and die a slow and wretched death of abandonment. 
> 
> DISCLAIMERS!!!!!!!  
> I OWN ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!!!! Every character belongs to the Marvel® franchise; I have no claim over them. The only characters I own are of my own, original creation ; they belong only to my mind. 
> 
> Now, reviews will make me update faster; also, this is beta'd by myself so... Please point out anything out of place and I will do my best to fix it. 
> 
> Enjoy the story!
> 
> -RR

   My name is Steve Rogers and the date is 18 December 1872. I am writing to try and wrap my head around the recent events. In the end, I guess Tony and Loki really did have an impact and I now feel a sense of guilt. I could have helped keep them safe; Tony got out. I have a feeling that the thief, Loki, is still alive and has merely slipped through the grasp of our little group, as Fury and Madam Hill have taken to calling us; I’m not entirely sure if it’s mocking or lovingly, The Avengers. I am not sure why but I have grown attached to the group of misfits. Maybe I should start at the beginning of this story. Natasha said that it helps, writing it all out.

   Well, it began roughly a year ago when I first came to London, England. There was something grey about it all, smog and chimneys lingering as factories switched to the gears and there, as in every city, were people. Some were alive, and most coppers and detectives would bother with the ones still alive. But I worked around the ones in the alleys, in the ground, in the Underground, with blood painted on them and harsh wounds left behind as they breathe their last. And somehow, I met a Norwegian ambassador at a bar and again at a ball, a pair of assassins, a supposed billionaire, and the only other American, a doctor who is a genius and slightly controversial, and a thief who lingered in both the light and the dark.

-_-_-_-_

   A man with short ash blonde hair, cropped close to his scalp, sighed; leaning over the edge of the roof he was currently crouching on in the cool dusk air coughed as some of the smog and ash blew in on the biting wind and entered his lungs from the factory chimneys that rose above the rest of the block like brick sentries. He coughed and spat the ash onto the tiled roof.

   His fingers twitched on his bow grip before he relaxed and sighed, shaking his head. The gory scene below was messy, but even with all the blood painted on the walls and splattered over the ground, the pale, and dark clothed body on the ground, the newest body in a string, his mind wandered vaguely to some author in the paper he had read of… Poe or something. He shook his head again and scanned the ground for answers with his sharp, hawk-like eyes. This was the third one in a two-week span, in _the month alone_ … Jesus Christ, he was getting tired of this shit.

   “Let’s go see what the damage is this time.” He sighed before strapping the bow to his back and hopping the walls as a hawk of metal and flesh dove, landing on a crate so it was level with his shoulder just as his feet touched the ground.

   Clint Barton wore very simple clothes. Tall black boots that buckled and laced up to his mid-shin, dark, non-descript trousers that fitted close to his skin, tucking into the tops of his boots. His shirt was a deep grey-black that most would condone; not the color because only ladies with not enough brain and too much time seemed to care about color, but because his arms and all his muscle were showing from lack of any kind of sleeve. He didn’t really care; he was comfortable. Over top of this, however, he wore a light coat of cotton and leather so he was harder to find in the crowd.

   You can’t find a man with the same clothes as everyone else. He even hunted a bit so that when people asked him about his bow, he could tell them he hunted. Though, it was not always strictly… animal. At least, the flying or four legged kind. He smirked even as he crouched, careful not to get blood on his long tailed coat. He snorted in incredulity. This was just sloppy; the throat was cut, then they were stabbed at least si-eight times. That he could see anyways.

   “ _Nat, come out of the shadows. I can feel your eyes boring into the back of my skull._ ” Barton stood as a woman, slender and shaped like an hourglass, slid from the shadows. She wore a coat much like his, but instead of trousers wore a long grey skirt and tight bodice with ribbing to feign the appearance of a corset.

     Natasha Romanov was the same height as Clint, with jaw length curly hair that was crimson, dark as the blood painted on the ground. She wore boots like Clint’s but slimmer. Around her shoulders, under the coat, was a light blue shawl, which as he looked, was probably cashmere. She, he knew, had so many knives and daggers on her a butcher would be jealous but she rarely ever needed them. Their bodies were weapons.

   “ _Nice find_.” He said in flawless Russian, nodding to the shawl.

   “ _Thank you. What do we total this one up to?_ ” She asked as she began to gather evidence and put it in a small canvas washing sack she slung over her shoulder.

   “ _Three, in two weeks in the month alone. Who ever this guy is, they’re starting to piss me off._ ”

   “ _Could it be one of the contacts?_ ” Natasha asked, narrowing her poisonous green eyes at the dead mark. He could see her fingering a blade and shook his head.

     “ _You mean the Trickster? Or one of the other high-ranking thieves? No; he knows not to go into our turf. The others have their own. He is far too smart for that; besides, have you ever seen anything like this from him? He’s elegant and subtle, if merciless._ ”

     “ _You sound like you admire him_.” Natasha sounded almost amused.

     “ _Not admire_.”

     “ _No. But you must respect him; even if we haven’t met the man.”_ Clint only offered a shrug and the Russian sighed before nudging the body with her foot.

     “ _Should we take this back with us? Again? Or-“_ She stopped when Clint held up a hand then rolled his eyes so hard, she was surprised they didn’t fall out of his head.

   “Fucking coppers…” the assassin muttered as a voice got closer.

   “I’m not saying that, Rogers. I’m just saying you should loosen up! Christ; do you want to die of stress before you’re thirty?” the owner of the voice, an American, still hadn’t heard or seen them. Clint saw Natasha slip a dagger from her skirt and shook his head. She hit him around the head, lighter than normal, and hissed,

   “ _Just get the mark out of here. I’ll meet you back at the Den._ ” And with that, she was gone.

   “And all I am saying, Mister Stark, is that I like my body to work so that I’m not half way drunk all the time.” The owner of this voice was American as well and the first voice laughed.

   “Who says I am?” The second voice let out a long suffering sigh as Clint heaved the body over his shoulder and grunted slightly at the weight. No matter how often he did this, the dead weight was still surprising. And it didn’t help this mark was heavier than the average citizen.

     “Just… Go and do your rounds through the alleys, Stark. I’ll see you back at the station.”

     “Oh, so you’re taking my suggestion?” He, Stark Clint guessed, sounded smug and amused.

     “Just shut up and go on your damn rounds already.”

     “Yes sir, Captain sir!” and Stark walked away, laughing. Clint really wished he could fly so he could leave for the roof tops. But, seeing as he couldn’t, he settled for avoiding the man and his partner, and meeting Natasha in roughly five minutes.

   He almost made it out of the alleys as well before he bumped into a man who was slightly shorter [taller?] than him. He had thick, wavy chocolate brown hair, a slight beard and mustache. He wore a deep red jacket, black vest and white shirt. His trousers were a deep grey that reminded him of steel. His tie was a strange cerulean blue and he wore no hat but he had several guns, well hidden to the average citizen, on his person.

   He stopped and stared at Clint and the dead body that was pretty much casually slung over his shoulders.

   Clint’s mind raced to think of a lie as the man edged a bit closer, eyes narrowing and calculating. He sighed, annoyed at being caught.

   “Is there a _really_ good reason _why_ you have a dead body casually slung over your shoulders?”

     “ _Trust me, it’s not what it looks like. I swear, my friend here just got really drunk and-“_

   “ _Save the bull shit for someone who would believe it, Hunter. I will ask again; is there a really, and I mean_ REALLY _good reason_ WHY _you have a dead body casually slung over your shoulders?_ ” It was then Clint registered that this man was speaking Russian, or at least re-asked it in Russian. He sighed and tried again.

   “No, seriously. I am just…” he trailed off as Natasha suddenly appeared, hitting the man around the back of his head but he ducked the pipe and only got a glancing blow. But, what he probably didn’t see was the syringe half filled with a mild sedative that she injected in his neck from her glove. He didn’t even see her slip them on.

   Her fingerless gloves had a small slit for a needle, that when she flexed her wrist a certain way, popped out and injected the victim with a sedative. He watched as the man stumbled to a wall in the alley, moving out of his way and he winced as Natasha hit him up side his head.

   “You idiot, just keep walking.” Clint shrugged and sighed, setting down the body and moving the man’s body a bit to the side, jolting in surprise when he felt the cold metal through warm skin and through the warm looking clothes. The man had a metal heart, or at least some metal ribs; the metal was almost dead center in his sternum. Huh. Interesting.

   He straightened and turned his back.

Tony felt his eyes slipping as he fought to keep himself conscious, hearing the edges of their conversation.

   “So… We’re not killing him then.” They weren’t moving, the man was stretching out his shoulders as the woman wrapped a dark cloth over his head and put a veil over her own face.

   “No; the coppers are too close and besides, I don’t want someone finding his dead body. He’s a Stark; don’t kill someone with money or power or bother unless paid really well to do so. Isn’t that what you taught me?” the man smirked.

   “Oh good. You’re controlling the blood lust then?”

   “What’s that supposed to mean?”

     “Only that the last mark we found like this,” he gestured to the body. “You threw a knife in a-ah... Rather unfortunate part of the cops anatomy and I think you scared him for life. I mean, the man cannot ever reproduce again!” the pair moved away and Tony slowly pushed himself up, feeling as though his head was going to explode. 

   “I was aiming for his thigh, it’s not my fault the idiot moved.” Was the last thing he heard before he was hitting the cobblestones in an unmarked alley, unconsciousness eating away at him like the disease in his heart, barely held in check with his little invention, his heart beat echoing off his iron ribs.

_-_-_-_

   A man with a hat pulled over his brow, the bowler of a man who had business, the gait of a man who knew where he was going and the clothes to back money. He wore well-worn dark grey trousers, a short coat that was deep grey and a vest of black and a white shirt but around his neck was a purple wool scarf and his tie an interesting shade of green; lighter than emerald but not quite dark enough to be called clover.

   His eyes were deep, conflicted, but kind, brown; the kind that you find with the most flowers growing, out in the countryside. But the ones that also grew the sharpest thorns and briars. On his nose was perched, like a little bird, a pair of glasses framed with silver-iron. It was he who ran across Mister Stark, laying there in the unmarked alley as everyone ignored him, taking him for another drunk.

   “Oh my…” he stopped and took a knee, not minding if his trousers were made a bit dirty. Quickly finding his pulse, he sighed with relief and shook his head. He had heard of Mister Anthony Stark, of course. Who hadn’t? The man’s father had helped revolutionize the airship, the new gears and metals the world could use instead of the older, more brittle metal in comparison.

   “Oh my god…” the man frowned at the billionaire’s unconscious body. “What have you gotten yourself into?” with a grunt, the broad shouldered man hefted one of Anthony’s arm’s over his shoulders and then lifted the dead weight off the cold ground. This done, he slowly, agonizingly slow to him and his already fretting yet organized mind, made his way back home. Half way there, he stopped and caught one of the motorized cabs; Anthony Stark was a complete dead weight and it had begun to rain lightly as the evening began.

   Once he was there, he stopped a minute to rest, looking up at the rather large, three story house before turning around and handing the cabbie two pence and giving him a nod as the man said, in an Irish lit,

   “Have a good evenin’, Doctor Banner!” and with that, drove off. The doctor panted but slowly trudged his way up the stairs, wincing as Anthony groaned at one point when he hit his shin by accident.

       Suddenly, the door flew open and a man with silver-blonde hair rushed out in a black-white suit. It was his valet, Sam.

     “Sam; can you take his other arm please? He’s quite heavy.” The valet nodded and took the majority of Anthony’s weight and the pair slowly made it up to Doctor Banner’s workshop where the valet helped place Anthony on the bed. 

     “Do you need anything else, Mr. Banner?”

     “If you could fetch a bowl of water and some cloths and heat up some soup, that will help. Thank you, Sam.” He gave a small smile and the valet nodded, giving one of his own and disappeared. Only to return, not even five minutes later as Doctor Banner began to peel off his patient’s coat and shirt.

   “The water and clothes are on your desk, Mr. Banner.” The doctor again just nodded and the valet left without another word.

   Bruce Banner was a well known doctor; he had several degrees, was fluent in at least six languages and was learning two more because he some extra time in his work day as experiments popped and smoked and the influx of patient’s had decreased since his latest episode. He sighed and shook his head.

   ‘What was that novel? Jackle and Hyde? Yes, that is very much what I am.’ He smiled grimly at the passing thought before he was focusing on Anthony Stark’s wounds. Or, at least trying to figure out why he was unconscious when he was not drunk; the alcohol in that area was well known to be thick enough that it could be used as lubricant for rusty gears, or even fuel. He snorted, shaking his head.

   “So then why were you there?” he muttered, taking out a stethoscope and felt his eyes widen a bit at the metal thudding. His ribs were metal? He stripped away the rest of Anthony’s shirt, jaw dropping just a little at the sight of the dully glowing metal implant. It casted a strange blue, cerulean blue but it hummed, just so slightly.

   He wanted to touch it so badly it practically burned his finger tips to not but he pulled the stethoscope around it and listened carefully. At least two of his ribs on either side were metal, or partly metal anyways. There must be a driving force behind it but Bruce Banner knew, as both a scientist and a victim, when to touch and when to look. To observe the curiosity that had captured his attention and try to work out what it was without touching it. It was a paradox.

   He smiled again and sighed; taking some of the warm cloths from the desk, which Sam had thoughtfully placed in the bowl of hot water and began to clean off the worst of the grime that had seeped into his clothes and rubbed his hair to clean out the clotted blood. Thankfully, no stitching was required; at worst, it was a concussion. Bruce sighed and pulled the man’s trousers off before pulling on a pair of plain white cotton bottoms and gently placed two quilts over Anthony’s half naked body. He quickly wrung out two of the cloths and placed one flat on his chest, below the intriguing device, and rolled the other one and put it behind his neck.

   He stood back and nodded then took a seat next to him, dragging the chair over and plucked a book from the desk. He settled back and began to read, keeping one eye and both ears trained on Anthony Stark’s prone, but breathing, body. After about twenty minutes, Bruce set his book down and took up his note pad, writing out the circumstances of finding Anthony Stark, where he found him, what time, approximately, what his condition was then and now, and the like.

   Finally, he dotted two more ‘i’s and marked the time; nearly forty minutes later, before Anthony Stark began to stir.

     “Owww….” He whimpered and Bruce looked up, rang the bell that would bring Sam with soup and water and moved slowly to stand beside Anthony Stark’s bedside.

     “Mister Stark…?” Bruce asked cautiously.

   His eyes snapped open and Anthony Stark bolted upright before grabbing his head and moaning lowly as if he had a migraine. Bruce sighed, again and muttered about “people moving too fast for their own damn good…” before he helped Anthony lay back down and placed a warm towel over his eyes, effectively blotting out the light. As a precaution, he lowered the flame in the kerosene lamps, opening the windows and allowing the cool evening breeze blow into the room. The air stirred the loose papers, few as they were, like invisible fingers, skimming over top and barely there.

   “Where am I? Who are you? How in the hell did I get here? What happened?”

   “You’re at my home, and are currently in my office that I use to receive patients. My name is Doctor Bruce Banner; I found you in the warehouse district. I brought you here because you were unconscious in an alley and you didn’t smell like alcohol. I’m not sure why you were unconscious. Does that help at all?” The billionaire nodded slowly, not about to risk the light as his head was killing him.

   “Mr. Banner, I have your soup and some water and light bread for Mr. Stark. Dinner will be served shortly.”

   “Thank you Sam. You can give the tray to me; you go and take the rest of the night off. Go and relax; you’ve been working non-stop for the past few days.” The valet looked both ecstatic and anxious before Bruce made a shooing motion and the young man scampered down the hall and disappeared.

   “Well? Think you can stomach anything?” Bruce asked as he held out the hot, watery soup and plate of fluffy bread. Anthony nodded and slowly made his way through the soup and some of the bread, Bruce only taking two pieces when Anthony looked at him pointedly.

   “Would you care to join me for dinner? By now, the streets are dangerous and I do not want to have a repeat episode.” Bruce said as Anthony nodded, putting back on his shirt and jacket.

   “I would love too; I feel as though something has taken over my stomach and left nothing but a gaping hole.” Bruce nodded in sympathy and lead the way to the dining room where Sam waited, dinner already plated. It was a stew with greens and the last of the beef chopped into cubes.

   Warm bread waited next to glasses of water and a simple glass pitcher. The table was made to seat six but even with only three people, Bruce insisting that Sam eat with him as well so the table and thus the room didn’t feel so lonely, the room felt lively enough. After dinner, Bruce led the way to his library. It wasn’t very big, maybe slightly larger than a king sized bedroom; it was maybe two or three of the king sized rooms pushed together. A fire was casting deceptively warm shadows over the carpet.

When Anthony Stark sat and Bruce and Sam had taken the only other two chairs close to the fire, Bruce asked,

     “Mister Stark-“

     “Please. Call me Tony. My friends all my call me that.” Bruce nodded, lips twitching as Tony’s face broke out into a wide grin.

     “Tony, you have to tell me everything you know about what happened, before you were knocked unconscious, if you do not mind.” Bruce grew worried as Tony looked into the fire, playing idly with a book on the edge of the table before picking it up and gazing at the title, the smooth emerald cloth cover and the red spine that whispered ‘Modern and Natural Medicines’. It was a strange, steam powered world they lived in. Bruce looked at Tony’s brow as it furrowed in concentration.

   “I was talking with Rogers,” he paused and looked at Bruce. “You probably don’t know who I’m talking about, do you?” He shook his head, shrugging. He tried to avoid the government. It made his life… Smoother.

   “Captain Steve Rogers is a military man, but a nice one, for the most part anyway.” He added quickly as Bruce’s face grew a bit shadowed, his eyes a bit dangerous.

     “He left the military, smart move if you ask me, and joined the police force. At least, I think it’s the police. I cannot get a clear understanding unless I have everything in the equation. But anyways, he came over here, England I mean, and well… There have been some grisly deaths, lately.” Bruce nodded.

     “So, Captain Rogers is investigating these deaths? Why? Why would he-“

     “Because apparently he can smell a lie twenty miles away and is a fucking blood hound. I don’t know. That’s what I am trying to find out. Anyways; he and I have been forced to work together by a man named Coulson. Well, Mister but why do I care?” Tony receded a bit into his mind for a few minutes before he came back and smiled. Not the wide one for the papers but Bruce knew it was fake.

     “He, however, works with bigger fish. It’s like a clock; he is the smaller wheel that makes the gears spin, but he makes sure that they do. And then the bigger fish come and wind up the smaller gears and they always, always, always spin to the same tune. Always. It’s maddening because the crank is impossible to find…” Bruce was pretty sure that as this point that Tony was rambling and had succinctly lost his mind. Or that the concussion was worse than he first imagined.

   “Tony…?” he cautiously asked before Tony blinked and came out of his head space. Where ever that was.

    “Sorry. Anyways, so we’re working together and now it’s been going on for roughly three weeks. We have gotten very little in that span of time and it is starting to make me very irritated. Rogers would tell you reaching further heights of irritation but I beg to differ. So, that’s where we stand.” He suddenly seemed to get an idea. Bruce automatically didn’t like it.

    “Say, Bruce… Would you like to come and stay at my Manor? I have plenty of room and I could use the help in this case. There is something not quite fitting and it’s starting to gnaw at my mind. I cannot put my finger on it but-“

    “I apologize, Tony, but I’m better off here. Here I have my books and my experiments and well…”

    ‘Here I don’t have to worry about another episode.’ He mentally shook his head.

    “Here you have your patients.” Tony finished and Bruce nodded, grateful for the life line.

    “Yes, exactly. If you want, in the morning, I can take you back to your Manor. And that way,” he added quickly, as Tony looked a bit put out, though understanding, “If I do find a reason, I can just come and find you, can I not?” Tony seemed to contemplate this and finally consented.

    “Very well. That seems like good enough idea to me.” with that, he started on conversations about medicines and engineering. Tony took it easily and they left the rest of the night behind in a debate over the use of different medicines and technologies. Bruce didn’t bring up the metal ribs nor the glowing circle in his chest. Tony seemed to be grateful.

_-_-_-_-

The Next Morning; Stark Manor

_-_-_-_-

   Bruce felt his jaw drop as he stared at the ‘country manor’. Tony had assured him it was, “Only a small place. Nothing too fancy.” It was HUGE. It made his neck hurt to crane and look up at it. It had chimneys; many chimneys. It was elegant with ivy snaking over the ruby brick as though it were from a fairytale story to tell children at night. It had windows that arched and some that were square. It had orchards that made a forest and gardens that were veritable explosions. There was a stable and field and down the hill a pond that looked like it was perfect for meditation. But the house wasn’t a house, nor a manor. Maybe a castle, downsized a few stories, yes. It was six stories tall, entirely of red brick and made his head spin. The shutters were an emerald green and there was a figure at the front door; well, two.

    One was an older man, wearing a coat with tails and a relieved smile. His hair was thick, grey-brown and his skin a tan that made him look as though he were a gardener but there was no one like that in sight. He had piercing blue eyes, like the dark depths of the night sky but made of the calm sky on a spring day. On his nose was perched a pair of half-moon glasses, wire and Bruce almost didn’t see them until they got closer.

   The other man was younger, obviously; thick blonde hair combed over to the side and no hat but there was one in his hand. He wore nice, deep blue pants but Bruce noticed that they were more worn and thus durable than Tony’s appeared to be. His shirt was white and he wore a nice red vest and a blue tie. His jacket was leather and worn well. He had deep blue eyes that spoke of horror and loss but tried to keep the shine of hope. And they were almost so sincere, it hurt to keep eye contact. Bruce didn’t look away.

     “Sir, I am glad to know that you are all right.” The butler intoned with a smile. The other man looked relieved.

     “Stark, good to know you’re not dead.” That must be Steve Rogers then…

     “Cap! I wasn’t expecting you to be worried.” That made the soldier look slightly uncomfortable but Tony laughed. It was real; Bruce’s mouth almost twitched into a smile.

       “I apologize, Sir. But you have a visitor in the drawing room. I could not make him wait for your return. Captain Rogers was about to go and search for you, or if the cause were, your body.” The butler looked relieved that it hadn’t come to that.

   “It’s fine Jarvis. Thank you for waiting. And don’t try to say you didn’t, I know you did. Is Pepper back today?” Tony asked before moving forward.

   “No, sir. Oh, and sir; he said he wanted you to-“

   “Oh my god, where are my manners?!” Bruce was pretty sure Steve looked perplexed, as though to say,

   ‘You HAVE manners? Really?’ but he didn’t. Bruce rolled his eyes.

   “Jarvis, Captain Rogers, this is Doctor Bruce Banner. Bruce, Jarvis, my butler and long term friend and Captain Rogers; American, solider and stick in the mud extraordinaire.” And with that, he waltzed inside, as though expecting Bruce to follow.

     “Pleased to meet you, Doctor Banner.” Steve said and came down the steps to grasp his hand. It was a firm grip but not like he was going to crush his hand. Bruce appreciated that.

     “Pleased to meet you, Captain. And please, call me Bruce.” Captain Rogers nodded and laughed.

     “Call me Steve. Captain is for the fights.” He smiled. Bruce smiled back.

    “You have better come with us, Doctor Banner. And pleased to meet you. The visitor requested your presence as well.” Suddenly, there was a loud yell of,

    “YOU!!?! What in the hell are you doing here?!” and Jarvis sighed before running back inside. Steve and Bruce were both pretty sure that they saw a gun in the older mans hand.

     "Well, I guess we should see what happened." Steve said before he pulled out his own gun and Bruce followed at a slower pace. This was what he wanted to avoid... He knew he should have stayed in Scotland last year.

     None of them noticed the hawk eyes that followed them, curiosity burning behind them as Clint Barton smirked and nodded to himself. This was going to be something to keep an eye on. And with that, he left. He had an appointment to keep.


End file.
